DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN CSI:NY OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. I DO HOWEVER, OWN SAMANTHA FLACK AND THE FLACK KIDS.

A/N: This is a future chapter. So have the tissues at ready, folks. Also, the beginning is a tad AU. Not my usual style, but the muse demanded I do it.

Everywhere and in between

"I'm already there
Take a look around
I'm the sunshine in your hair
I'm the shadow on the ground
I'm the whisper in the wind
I'm your imaginary friend
And I know I'm in your prayers
Oh I'm already there

She got back on the phone
Said I really miss you darling
Don't worry about the kids they'll be alright
Wish I was in your arms
Lying right there beside you
But I know that I'll be in your dreams tonight
And I'll gently kiss your lips
Touch you with my fingertips
So turn out the light and close your eyes

I'm already therewhat
Don't make a sound
I'm the beat in your heart
I'm the moonlight shining down
I'm the whisper in the wind
And I'll be there until the end
Can you feel the love that we share
Oh I'm already there."
-I'm Already There, Lonestar

Sunlight streamed into the kitchen. Bathing the room with warmth and a stunning glow as a refreshing, revitalizing breeze travelled through the open window and fluttered the curtains.

Flack had gone downstairs at the sound of dishes and pots and pans clanging together in the sink and running water and the radio mounted underneath one of the cupboards playing. He had went upstairs to lie down. To rest his weary mind and eyes. Because sleep so far seemed to be the only time he was at peace and not suffering from the overwhelming loneliness and loss that threatened to destroy him. It had been a week since he had been back to week. A week of condolences and sympathetic words and gestures past his way. One month and fourteen days since he had gotten that one phone call he would never forget as long as he lived. Thirty-five days exactly since he had walked out of the hospital a widower. Seven hundred and twenty hours since he'd watched that casket lower the body of his wife into the cold, dark ground.

And the agony was still so fresh. He couldn't pass by the bench outside of the precinct without seeing Samantha sitting there with the sun making her hair sparkling. He couldn't walk by certain areas of the lab without seeing her bent over a microscope or running samples through machines or simply sitting on a couch in the lounge on her break with her shoes off and her feet tucked under her while sipping a tea and reading a book. He couldn't walk into his house without hearing her voice or her musical, endearing laugh echoing in his ears. And he couldn't look at his children and not see that smile that lit up her eyes and crinkled her nose.

He couldn't go in their bedroom without feeling her there, without smelling her. Without a million and one memories taking his breath away and bringing him to his knees. And when he'd gone up there, after walking into an empty and lonely house, he sat on the edge of their bed and stared at that wedding ring on his hand and looked around the room and cried. It was easier to cry when he was alone. Which was why, when he had decided to call it an early day at the office, he had retreated home while the kids were still at school so they wouldn't have to bear witness to his pain and suffering.

So when he'd woken from a fitful sleep to the sounds of movement in his house and the bedside clock only reading quarter after one in the afternoon, he had gone down to investigate. The kids were at school and Carmen, who was spending the day with Speedle, had agreed to go and pick them up. And Flack knew for a fact that he had locked the front door and set the alarm and there would have been no way anyone could have broken in without him hearing it. And as he descended the stairs mumbling and cursing at the intrusion, he briefly wondered if he'd left the sliding door or the one in the garage unlocked to let anyone into his place.

He walked into the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight before him. His heart pounded in his chest. His breath caught in his throat. His entire body stiffened and goose bumps and shivers overtook his entire body at the sight of the person at the sink, scrubbing the dishes he'd left from the night before. Her hair tumbling to her shoulders and fluttering in the breeze coming in from the window. The sunlight bathing her in a soft, angelic glow as she worked away in a simply white cotton eyelit dress and her bare feet. Singing softly to herself to the Lonestar song playing on the radio.

"We may be a thousand miles apart, but I'll be with you wherever you are. I'm already there, take a look around. I'm the sunshine in your hair, I'm the shadow on the ground.I'm the whisper in the wind, and I'll be there until the end. Can you feel the love that we share? Oh I'm already there."

He couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. Because the impossible had happened. A modern day miracle had occurred right there in Flushing, Queens.

She'd come back to him.

"Samantha?"

Did he even speak? Did the name even pass his lips? If it did, he certainly didn't hear it over the pounding of his heart.

She turned her head towards him at the sound of his voice. A bright, cheerful and beautiful smile spread from ear to ear. Her golden eyes sparkled, her freckled nose crinkled.

"Hi, Donnie," she chirped happily, and reaching for the dish towel that sat on the counter beside her, grabbed a hold of it and dried her hands.

"What?…How?…I don't…"

She was still smiling as she walked over to him. The dress swaying against her legs, the sunlight shining in her hair and on her peaceful, gentle face. She looked happy. She looked happy and well rested. And most of all she looked at peace. She wasn't suffering and bore no ill affects from the shooting that supposedly had claimed her life.

"Samantha?" his voice came out as a squeak this time, as emotion overcame him.

Sheer joy and utter relief that it had all been just a horrible, horrible mistake. That it had never happened. That he had never gotten that call and never made the decisions he had and had never sat on the edge of her bed, holding her hand and stroking her hair and kissing her forehead and whispering I love you's while she slipped away.

"I'm here," she told him, standing in front of him now, looking up at him with nothing but love and adoration in her eyes.

"I don't understand," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "I watched you…I watched you die. I was there. I don't understand. This isn't real. It can't be real."

She reached out and took one of his hands and held it to the side of her face. So skin touched skin. So he could feel that she was warm and very much alive.

"I don't understand," he sobbed, allowing the tears to stream down his face as his fingertips drifting over every inch of her face.

"You don't need to right now," she told him, and captured his hand in hers once again and placed tender kisses along his finger tips and palm.

He shook his head, at the sheer craziness of it all. Because he could feel her. He could feel her soft skin and could breath her scent. And he could look in her eyes and hear her breathing and it was all to good to be true. All his praying and wishing and begging and pleading had come true. Against all hope and odds, his wife was there in front of him. Very much alive.

He reached out and pulled her into his arms and kissed her and held her as tightly as he could. He sobbed into her shoulder as she embraced him warmly, one hand on the small of his back and the other on the back of his head. He felt her fingers in his hair, the way her hand rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles.

"I don't understand," he cried against her. "You died…I was there…did you fake it? Was it all pretend? Did it never happen?"

"Shh, Donnie," she whispered into his ear. Her breath tickled his skin. "No questions, okay? Not right now."

"But I have questions. Lots of questions," he said, pulling away from her. "I need to know why. I need to know why you'd pretend something like that. Why'd you do that to me? To our kids? Why, Sammie? Why would you put them through that? Do you know what they've been through? Kieran and Mackenzie and Daniel…all the questions they've asked that I've had no answers to. The nightmares they've had and listening to them cry themselves to sleep. Why? Why would you do that?"

"There was nothing I could do to stop it, Donnie," she told him gently.

"What's that suppose to mean? So this was some kind of ruse? Some kind of undercover thing? Whose idea was it? Mac's? Some kind of case against the Wilder gang that he needed help with? I don't understand why you'd go along with something like that, Samantha!"

"I didn't have a choice. Please, just listen to me."

"You didn't have a choice? Who put you up to this? Whose sick fucking idea was it for you to fake your death and rip your kids' hearts out of their chests! To destroy me!"

"Don, please, I need you to listen to me, baby."

"Why, Samantha? Why the hell would you do this to me! I love you! I've always loved you! I will always love you! And you did this to me! You do something like this!?"

She shook her head. "You don't understand…"

"No…I don't…and I should just be happy and relieved that you're here. And I am, baby. Believe me, I am. But you can't just come back here and expect everything to be the same after doing something like this!"

"I didn't do anything," she vowed. "This wasn't my fault. You need to know that. I didn't do anything wrong."

"Yes, you did. You left me. You left me to pick up the pieces! You left me to deal with shit I don't know how to deal with! And you come back and expect me to say it's okay you put me through utter fucking hell?"

"Listen to me," she laid her palms on his chest. "Look at me and listen to me, Don. Because I need you to hear me and understand me."

He shook his head and wiped his tears away on the sleeve of his shirt.

"Please," she pleaded. "Please look at me."

He sniffled noisily and looked down at her.

"I love you, Don. I always have. I always will. There was never a time I didn't love you. No matter what we went through, no matter what we faced. I loved you and I will never stop loving you. You believe me, don't you?"

"Of course I do…but…"

"And I know you loved me."

"No. It's not past tense, Sammie. I love you. Present tense. Love you."

"I can't stay…I came here to see you but I can't stay."

"What? What do you mean you can't stay?"

"I'm just here for a little while," she told him. "And I wish I could stay. Believe me, I do. Because I miss you and I would give anything to be here with you and our kids. But I can't and I need you to understand that."

He shook his head. "I don't…I don't understand. You came back but you can't stay. I don't get that. At all."

"I want you to know that I'm okay. That everything is fine. That I'm watching you and thinking about you and I'm missing you every single day. And that I'm always around you. In all the places you least expect. Look around you, Donnie. I'm the sunshine in your hair, I'm the shadow on the ground. I'm the whisper in the wind. I'm everywhere and I need you to realize that."

The tears flowed again. Because he knew that nothing he did or said could change what was going to happen next.

"I'm always here with you," Sam said. "No matter what. Don't worry about me anymore. And don't worry about the kids. They're going to be okay. And so will you. I promise. You're going to be okay. You're going to meet someone and fall in love and.."

"No," he shook his head vigorously. "Only you, Sammie. For the rest of my life. Only you."

"You'll see," she said, and smiled gently. "Thank you. For everything you ever gave me in my life. For giving me our kids. For giving me you. You'll never know how much I love you."

"Don't do this, Samantha. Please, don't do this."

"I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I know I promised to never leave you. But I couldn't have stopped it. And neither could have Stella. You need to stop blaming her. Please. Because it doesn't help make it any easier on you, Donnie. I know you're angry and you're hurt. But please, don't shut everyone out. Promise me you won't."

"I promise you," he choked out.

"I have to go now," she said. "I just wanted you to see that I'm okay. That everything is fine now. I thought seeing me would help you."

"Don't leave," he begged. "Samantha…please don't leave."

"I have to. Maybe I'll be back. When you least expect it."

Hot tears slipped down his cheeks as he reached out and laid a hand on the side of her face. He rested his forehead against hers. Felt her breath on his face. Breathed in her scent one last time. He kissed her. Revelling in the touch of her lips.

"Goodbye, Samantha," he whispered.

"No…" she said, laying her fingertips over his lips. "It's never goodbye. Always remember that."

He bolted awake with a choking sob. Finding himself sitting up in bed on top of a mess of wrinkled and twisted sheets and his face wet from his tears. His chest heaved and struggled to draw breath. His entire body was drenched with sweat and shook from the grief that now enveloped him.

A dream. It had been a dream. All the elation he had felt to see her standing there and to feel her warm and breathing and to be looking into her eyes and touching her and kissing her lips was gone.

She was gone. There'd be no miracle. She wasn't coming back. She was far beyond reach.

But that brief moment of experiencing all those feelings and all that love, whether it was real or not, was something that Flack would never forget. Questions had been answered. Fears had been quelled. She had come to him to let him know that she was okay. That she wasn't suffering and she wasn't alone and that she was happy and at peace. That he had done the right thing and she held no ill will towards him. She had let him know that although he couldn't see her, he could feel her. That she would always be there watching over him and their kids. And that she knew, even if he didn't at that time, that he was going to be happy again.

He was going to live again.

It didn't make the loss or the grief any easier to bear. Because he would do anything, anything, to have her back. But to have had that time with her, to shed those tears with her and tell her he loved her and say good-bye to her, was everything he needed and more. Even if it was just a dream.

It had felt so real. As he placed his fingertips to his lips, he could still feel and taste her mouth on his. His skin still burned at her touch. Her scent still lingered in his memory.

He never wanted to let go.

The sounds of life and reality trickled into the bedroom. He could hear the twins laughing and playing in the front yard with Speedle. He could hear Carmen and Kieran downstairs talking in the kitchen. He could hear Mikayla's babbling down the hall. Most likely having just woken up from her own nap and looking for someone to come and get here.

But he didn't hear Sam.

Flack sighed and wiped his tears away with the front of his shirt and glanced over at the bedside clock. It was quarter after four. He had been asleep, and dreaming, for three hours. Was that really possible? Or had the time on the clock in the dream not really been the real one? Everything about it had seemed so vivid and lifelike.

Sam had seemed so lifelike. As if she had never left.

She's gone, Flack, he told himself. She's gone and you need to get a grip and realize that there isn't going to be any miracles. She isn't going to come walking through the front door. She isn't going to wander into the bedroom in those stupid cartoon character pyjamas and fluffy slippers. She isn't going to greet you at the door with a hug and a kiss and a bright smile. Shit like that didn't happen in real life. This wasn't a soap opera or a movie. Real people didn't take a bullet to the chest and suffer massive strokes that left them brain dead and somehow come out of it all perfectly fine.

The fact of the matter was, as much as it sucked, this was real life. With real life problems and real life loss and as badly as he wanted it all to go away, this was his life. He was a widower. A single father to four kids. And somehow, someway, he had to find it inside of himself to pull his shit together and deal. If not for himself, for them. And for Sam.

He closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest and took in deep, slow breaths. Getting a grip on himself before getting on with what was left of his life.

He opened his eyes and climbed out of bed. He had fallen asleep in the dress shirt and pants that he had worn to work. He grabbed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from his dresser and headed for the ensuite bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror. The was more grey in his hair now. In fact, he'd almost gone completely grey and he was only forty. His eyes were dark and handed. His face was lined with exhaustion and grief. He was forty but looked and felt eighty.

You're going to be okay….

Sam's words to him in the dream echoed in his ears.

You're going to be okay and you're going to meet someone and fall in love…

He highly doubted the last part. He had wanted to tell her, when she'd said it, that she was nuts and seriously delusional if she thought that that was going to happen. Because he'd already loved, and lost, the best thing that had ever happened to him. And no woman, no matter how wonderful they were, would ever make him feel that way again. That overwhelming, all consuming love that brought you to your knees and kicked you in the ass. He couldn't give all of himself to another woman. And no one deserved to not be given everything. Or to have to compete with a ghost.

He leaned over the sink and cupped more cold water in his hands and splashed his face with it. He stood there, his hands on the sink ledge, staring into the water swirling down the drain as he prayed for some help. Some help in getting on with things. With coping. With feeling human again.

With making the damn pain go away.

Sighing heavily, Flack reached out and turned the water off and snagged a towel off of the rack over the toilet. He dried his face and hands and changed into fresh clothes. Tossing the old, wrinkled ones in the laundry hamper in the closet on his way out of the bedroom.

He paused at the top of the stairs, his hand on the banister as he listened to what was left of his family getting on, albeit with some difficulty, with their lives. Than he back tracked and went to the nursery at the end of the hall. Where his daughter was standing in her crib, her hands tightly gripping the railing as she bounced up and down and shrieked happily while intently staring at the rays of sunshine that spilled into her room and cast shadows on the hardwood floor.

I'm already there. Take a look around I'm the sunshine in your hair. I'm the shadow on the ground.

He smiled as those words came over him.

"What are you looking at, baby girl?" he asked his toddler daughter, carefully stepping over the shadows. As if disturbing them would destroy something precious.

"Up, daddeee," Mikayla cooed, stretching her arms out to him. "Up!"

He reached into the crib and scooped that tiny body up effortlessly into his arms. Mikayla greeted him with a noisy, sloppy kiss on the cheek and than curled one tiny arm around his neck.

"Ook, Daddeee!" she squealed, and with her free hand, pointed at the ground. "Ook!"

"I'm looking," he told her.

And together, father and daughter stood in the silence and peacefulness of that room, staring at those shadows.

Kieran was alone in the kitchen. Aunt Carmen had run down into the basement to grab some things from the freezer to make for supper. He sat at the cluttered kitchen table, still in his school uniform as he struggled to concentrate on his math homework. Math wasn't his strong suit. Or science. He was more the athlete than that mathlete. He excelled in sports and gym class and loved nothing more than being outside in the sunlight and fresh air. Not cooped up in the damn house staring at a bunch of numbers that made absolutely no sense to him.

It just was not his thing. He wasn't Uncle Shel or Uncle Adam.

He wasn't his mother.

Tears pricked at his eyes and his throat tightened as he thought about her. He didn't talk about it much. His mother's death. The way he looked at it, she was gone and she wasn't coming back and all the talking in the world wasn't going to change that fact. Some scum bag had taken her away and he was never going to see her again. He was never going to get those neatly packaged lunches with all his favourite stuff inside and those little notes she always tucked somewhere. Telling him to have a nice day and be good and that she loved him.

He always laughed and felt embarrassed when he opened one of those letters and his buddies ribbed him about it. But the truth of the matter was, he loved them. And when the teasing was done and his buddies moved on to other things and weren't paying attention, he folded the notes back up and stuffed them in his pocket. So he could go home afterwards and kiss her and thank her and than put that note somewhere special. He had a shoe box in his closet nearly full of them and other things that meant something to him. All from his mother.

He had gone into that shoebox just after his father had come home from the hospital and told him that his mother was dead. He would never forget the way that his father cried while breaking the news. He'd never seen his dad break down and lose control like that. It had scared Kieran. Because dad was the strong one. Dad was the one that kept things calm and the things running smoothly. The one that settled mom down when she got a little too excited or carried away with someone. The one who took care of her when grandpa died and she was overcome with grief. Dad wasn't suppose to lose it like that.

But he had. And Kieran had sat there feeling helpless. Not knowing what to do or say to make things better. So instead of offering words, he had walked over to his father and wrapped his arms around him and they had held each other and cried.

And than he'd gone to his room and into the closet for that shoebox. Selecting a single picture from it before putting the box back into it's safe place.

He carried that picture everywhere with him. He'd placed it into a plastic sandwich bag so it wouldn't get damaged. He kept it in his locker. Slipped it into each text book and binder for the different classes he attended. Placed it under his pillow at night. And when the emotions became too much, when he missed her beyond belief, he'd pull it out and look at it. He'd run a finger over her face and tell her he loved her and that he missed her.

And that was the best mommy anyone could ever ask for.

And he took it out now. From where he'd had it stashed in the back of his math binder and stared down at it with tears welling in his eyes.

Kieran looked up as his father came into the room. He quickly shoved the picture back into the binder and placed a hand to his forehead so his dad couldn't see him near tears and pretended to be focused on his homework. Dad didn't need to see him cry. Dad needed him to be brave and strong.

"How was school, K?" Flack asked, as he went to the table and bent down to press a kiss to his son's head before carrying Mikayla to her high chair and depositing her in it. He got her a sippy cup of juice and some animal crackers to keep her happy and pacified.

He had seen the startled look that had come over his son's face when he walked into the room, and that he had tried hard to hide something without his father realizing. And the way he had attempted to hide the fact he was sad. But Flack wasn't going to call the kid out on it. He was simply going to be patient and wait to see if Kieran came to him.

"It was okay," his son replied.

"Just okay?" Flack asked, as he went to the fridge and took out the jug of milk.

Kieran nodded, watching as his dad got two plastic tumblers from the cupboard above the sink and filled them with milk. Than grabbed a box of Oreo cookies from the pantry.

"Just okay," Kieran conceded, as his dad brought the milk and cookies to the table. "We're going to be having supper soon," he informed his father. "Aunt Carmen's gone downstairs to get stuff."

"So?" Flack asked, as he set the Oreos and the cups down before pulling out the chair across from his son and sitting down. "So we have dessert first. Remember what your mom always said? Life's short. So eat dessert first."

Kieran smiled at that. "I thought you didn't like Oreos."

"It's not that I don't like them," Flack said, as he opened the package. "It's that I never got a chance to have any because your mom had the whole thing eaten before I managed to even get one."

"Mommy always did like Oreos," Kieran declared and reached for one.

Flack watched his son as he took the cookie apart. Setting the top aside so he could eat the middle first.

Just like his mother.

"So do you want to tell me what's going on?" Flack asked, as he helped himself to a cookie.

"What do you mean?" Kieran asked.

"I got a phone call today, at work, from your principal. He said you got into a fight in the hallway."

Kieran shrugged. "It was nothing."

"He told me if was with a grade eight boy. That the two of you apparently had words and you took offence to something he said and you hit him."

His son nodded.

"Doesn't look like there's been anything done to you though," Flack observed.

"There's not 'cause I handed him his ass," Kieran declared.

Flack smirked and fought to hold back a chuckle.

"Sorry," Kieran apologized. "Butt. I handed him his butt."

"You wanna tell me why?"

The ten year old shook his head.

"I think you should, buddy."

"It was no big deal," Kieran told him.

"It must have been for you to hand this kid his ass. A kid in a higher grade. You know how your mom and I…how I…feel about fighting K. It doesn't solve anything and you know it. The only thing it does is get you and the other guy hurt, land you in a lot of hot water and piss your parents off. So if you want me to have a reason not to ground you, buddy, I think you should tell me the reason you did it."

Kieran sighed heavily. "You have to promise you won't get upset, dad."

"Is it that bad?"

"Promise me, dad."

"Okay…I promise you that I won't get upset."

Another sigh.

"Kieran…."

"This guy, Stephen Chambers. That's his name. He's an asshole."

Flack arched an eyebrow and looked at his son pointedly. "Kieran…"

"I'm sorry but he is!" his son cried. "He's a huge asshole and I can't stand him! He's always mouthing off about us!"

"About who?"

"Us! Me and Daniel and Mackenzie. Because our parents are cops. Blue collar. City workers. And his dad is some snot nose, stuck up, arrogant P-R of an accountant. And he makes fun of his 'cause our parents are flatfoots. That's what he called you guys dad!"

"I've been called worse, Kieran. Trust me."

"And he always makes fun of Daniel because he's a bit, you know, strange."

"Your brother isn't strange, Kieran. He's OCD and ADHD."

"I know that! Everyone knows that! And I've tried to tell that asshole too but he won't listen and he still keeps talking shit about all of us! And I've wanted to hit him before. Trust me, I did! I wanted to kick the crap out of him tons of times when he wags his big goddamn mouth."

"Take it easy, K," Flack said calmly and softly.

"I hate him. I hate him and I taught him a lesson."

"Because he made fun of your brother? Because he said something about me being a cop?"

"No!" Kieran cried. "Because he said something about mommy!"

Flack nodded slowly and sipped his milk.

"I was so mad, dad! I was walking by him on my way to my locker and when I heard him say it, I was so mad. So mad that it didn't seem like me beating him up. It seemed like I was some other kid doing those things."

"We're going to have to talk about that, Kieran. Take you to talk to someone. Because that's not good. To flip out that bad where you don't know what you're doing. That's not good at all and we need to get a handle on that, okay? We need to get her temper in check. Alright?"

Kieran nodded.

"Now tell me what this asshole said about your mom."

Kieran grinned at the fact his dad used the word asshole. "It's really bad, though, dad," he said.

"K, look what I do for a living. I hear bad every day, buddy."

The ten year old took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "He said that people shouldn't be so sad that she's dead because it's one less pig out on the streets."

Flack sighed heavily.

Kieran dissolved into tears.

"It's okay, Kieran," Flack said, as he got to his feet and went around the table. He wrapped his arms around his son and let his first born sob into his stomach. "It's okay," he whispered, stroking Kieran's dark hair. "I know it hurts, K."

"I miss, mommy," he cried. "I miss mommy and I want her back."

"I know you do. And I want her back, too. So bad it hurts. But there's nothing I can do to bring her back. Nothing anything can do. And that sucks to hear, I know. But that's life, K. Unfortunately, that's life."

"But it's not fair! Why her? Why my mom?"

"I don't know why," Flack told him. "No one does. It just happened. And if she could come back and tell us why, trust me, she would."

"If she came back, I'd never let her go again," Kieran declared. "No one would take her away from us ever again. You wouldn't let them, dad, would you? Take her away?"

"She wouldn't be going anywhere," Flack vowed. "I'd even chain her to the water heater in the basement if I had to."

Kieran managed a laugh and he pulled away from his father. "I feel so guilty," he sniffled.

"About what?"

"Sometimes I'm angry. At mommy. Angry at her for leaving us."

"You know, what?" Flack ran a hand over his son's hair. "That's okay. Wanna know why?"

Kieran nodded and looked up at his father.

"Because there's times I am really, really, really angry at her too."

"You are?" Kieran asked.

"Sure," Flack replied, clearing the tears off of his son's face with gentle fingertips. "I didn't want her to go. To have to go through life without her. To have to watch you guys go through your lives without her. And that hurts. Really bad."

Kieran nodded in agreement.

"But it wasn't your mom's fault. What happened. It wasn't her fault and there was nothing she could have done to prevent what happened to her. So being angry, at her, at other people, it doesn't do us any good, K."

"But what about whoever did it, dad? Can't we be mad at them?"

"Sure we can. Because if it wasn't for them, she'd still be here."

"They'll catch them, right dad? Uncle Danny and Uncle Adam and everyone else? And Uncle Tim now that he works there, too? They'll catch them, right?"

"They'll do their best, K."

"You could do it, dad. I know you could. You could find them. Find whoever did those to, mommy. I know you could. If anyone could find them, it's you."

Flack sighed. "It's not my fight," he reluctantly told his son.

"Yes!" Kieran argued. "It is! Mommy was your wife! If anyone should be finding them it should be you! For her, dad! For us! You should be finding them and blowing their brains out!"

"K, listen to me, son," Flack knelt down in front of Kieran's chair and laid his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Doing that…doing that would only take me away from you and your brothers and sister. You see that, don't you? That if I did something like that, I wouldn't just lose my job, buddy. I'd be in jail. And I'd lose you guys. And you guys are the only thing I have left."

"But no one would have to know, dad! No one would have to know it was you!" Kieran told him. "You could just do it and walk away and no one would know!"

"No, K. I couldn't. You know that. Because there's ways that things could be traced back to me and you know that."

"But they can't just get away with it, dad! They can't! You have to make sure they pay for what they did!"

"They will pay, Kieran. I promise you that. But it's not up to me to make sure they do."

"But you could…"

"I don't want to hear you talk like this ever again," Flack said sternly.

It was startling to hear words like that, so hateful and determined, coming out of a young child's mouth. And he didn't want Kieran knowing, in any way, shape or form, of the plan that he and Scagnetti had concocted and were now slowly bringing together with the help of Angell and Tim Speedle. Even Carmen didn't know. And that was the way Flack wanted to keep it.

"But dad…"

"Kieran…enough…never again do you talk like that, hear me?"

He sniffled and nodded.

"They will pay. I promise you that. Now I've got another question."

"I'm not in trouble for fighting?"

"I'm not happy you fought, but no, you're not in trouble. We'll let this one pass. I want to know what you're hiding in your binder there."

Kieran blinked.

"When I walked in the kitchen, I saw you hide something, K. And I want to know what it is."

"It's nothing, dad. Honest."

"Maybe, maybe not. But I'd like to see it for myself."

Kieran sighed and reached into the back of his binder and pulled up the neatly and carefully preserved photograph and held it out to his dad.

Flack took the object from him. Inside of that plastic baggie he now held, was a photograph Flack himself had taken two days after Kieran had been born. Sam was on the couch in the seating area of her room, in her favourite flannel pyjamas and the sunlight streaming in on her as she smiled brightly as she cuddled their new son.

Don't worry about the kids, they'll be alright….

Flack choked back emotion and handed the photo back to his son.

"You're going to be okay," he told his first born. "You and Daniel and Mackenzie and Mikki are going to be okay."

"Promise, dad?" Kieran asked hopefully.

"With all my heart," he replied.

Danny Messer stood out the covered front porch, the hood of his Nike sweatshirt pulled over his head as he rocked back and forth on his heels. His hands shoved deep in his pockets. It was ten o'clock at night. Four hours past the end of a triple shift and too wound up to sleep. Since the day he and Flack had had it out over the insane idea about going after the Wilder gang, the two old friends hadn't spoken a word to each other. Danny had done a lot of thinking. A lot of soul searching. And barely any sleeping. And when an unexpected package had turned up on his desk that day, the contents had all but made up his mind for him.

Which was why he now found himself, staring out at the driving rain that had started an hour ago, on that front porch in Flushing, Queens.

The screen door clicked open and he looked over his shoulder as Flack came out in a pair of baggy faded jeans and black t-shirt and bare feet.

"What's up, Dan-o?" he asked. "Carmen answered the door and said you were here to see me. You hate me that much you don't want to come in?"

Danny shook his head miserably. "I don't hate you, Flack. I love you. Like a brother, you know that."

"So what's going on? What are you doing here so late?" Flack asked.

"I needed to see you. To talk to you. About what you proposed a little while back. About the…" Danny stuck his head over the railing and looked up and down the street.

"They're gone," Flack assured them. "I sent the plainclothes packing a few days ago."

"About the Wilder gang," Danny continued in a quiet voice. "You still going ahead with what you were talking about?"

"You hear to bust me or rat me out if I say yes?" Flack asked.

Danny shook his head. "I have to show you something. And I am breaking massive lab protocol by bringing this here and showing you."

Flack frowned. "What's going on, Danny?"

"This should be in evidence," Danny said. "And I haven't photographed it or catalogued it or nothing. Because to be honest, I don't think putting it in evidence will matter a whole hell of a lot. But it might give you and whoever you got helping out more incentive to get the job done so to speak."

"Christ, Mess, what is it? This is a little too double-o seven for me."

"This does not go past me and you, Flack. Swear to me you don't breath a word of it to anyone."

"I swear to you. Now what…"

"I got a package today. I got to my office and it was just sitting there. This small cardboard box. No proper label on it, no return address. Nothing. Just my name. Danny Messer. On top in black magic marker. No detective, no nothing."

"Okay….what is it?"

Danny sighed heavily. "It's two things, actually. Of Sam's."

"Danny…what's going on?"

Danny removed both hands from his pockets, bringing with him an evidence back in each. "These came with a note that said I should give these to Detective Flack. In case he wanted them."

The CSI held the objects out.

Flack reached out with both hands to accept them. His heart pounding and his eyes widening at the sight before him. In one bag was a police issued nine millimeter Glock handgun. In the other was an NYPD badge. It glistened in the rays cast from the porch light above their heads. He could clearly see the number.

9118.

The air went out of his body and his legs went weak. He slid down the brick wall behind him and sat on his heels as he stared at that badge and that gun cradled protectively in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Don…" Danny said. "I am so goddamn sorry."

He inhaled a shaky breath and ran a hand over his face.

"I came here to show you those. And to tell you I've changed my mind."

Flack looked up at him. Sheer torment in his eyes and on his face.

"I'm in," Danny said simply.

Thanks to everyone that is reading and reviewing. I appreciate each and every one of you guys! Even the lurkers! But please, show me some love peeps! I just want to know who is reading and enjoying!

Special thanks to:

Brttmlcv

Hope4sall

muchmadness

Laplandgurl

ImaSupernaturalCSI

Forest Angel

GregRox

Wolfeylady

Bluehaven4220

Soccer-bitch